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Derlord has, to put it simply, a headache. It's the same headache that's repeated every day since he saw the King, the same headache that threatens to decimate his skull if he so much as blinks too hard. Really, it's more like a migraine. He should call it a migraine. But his mind demands that he keeps his thoughts simple, if only to keep the pain at bay.
It's daily, it rarely goes away, and it's painful. That's all. Some days, the pain is minimal. Only a mild annoyance he's learned to live with. Some days, it's only mental, it's existence bound to the corners of his eyes where the shadows live. Other days, most days, however…
Other days, it's skull melting, purely physical pain. Its a splitting pain that presses on his skull and threatens to force his eyes out of their sockets. Some days he can feel it in his teeth. Some days he can feel it at the start of his spine, tingling on his tongue. Some days it's so bad, he cannot even pry open his eyes. Days where he can barely leave his bed, even when he forces himself to.
Today is one of those days.
He feels around the counter he stands before, fingers finally curling around the knifes handle. Derlord breathes in deep. He only needs to cut them out, and the pain will end. He only needs to take them, and he can go back to being productive. To being useful.
One simple plunge of the blade into his eyes, one small, tiny cut, and he will be free.
His hands tremble as he raises it, and it causes his stomach to churn. He just needs to do it. He just needs to have courage. He has courage. He can do it.
He raises the knife…
…And rocks it, cutting whatever he threw on the counter. The blade barely misses his fingers. He's reckless, not a fool.
…Not to mention that he already tried. His will failed. He was not strong enough.
Another cold hand lands on his own, stilling it's next motion. Avery steals the blade from Derlords hand, although he has to admit he doesn't put up too much of a fight, besides tightening his grip as much as he can.
"Let me do it. Please." Avery's voice, soft with an emotion Derlord cannot place.
His mind tells him it's pity. His heart tells him it's love.
Derlord resists the urge to huff at the words. He hates this. Hates being so weak, so pitiful. He's always hates being useless, like he is now. His father had never needed help like this. Had always told him that if Derlord was even half a man, he wouldn't either.
Yet here he was. Hating it yet needing it all the same. Hating it, but knowing that on days like this, where his eyes cannot open for fear of inviting in more pain, he cannot refuse the help. No matter how much he wants to. No matter if he wants to save his poor pride.
Avery gently (too gently) takes his now-empty hand, tugging him away from the kitchen counter. Away from Independence.
Derlord, shamefully, lets him. Not because he wants to be led, of course not. This is a weakness. That he cannot push through pain long enough to do a task as simple as cooking for himself. That a man like himself is letting Avery take care of him like a child when he can care for himself just fine. So of course it's not because he wants to. It's because Avery would not let up, if he resisted. He'd nag and pull and irritate until he got his way, and Derlord simply does not feel like being nagged.
…and maybe he trusts Avery, just a little bit. Just maybe.
Maybe he wants to let Avery love him, to let Avery care for him. Maybe, a small part of him craves it. But that's a ridiculous thought. He doesn't need it. It is not a requirement to his well-being. It's frivolous. It's extra.
The movement, no matter how excessively gentle it is, makes the pain worse, as all movement does. And maybe it's just Avery's cold hand in his, a soothing chill, but Derlord finds that he's ok with a little more pain. So long as Avery's holding him. So long as Avery keeps holding him.
The younger man moves him and pushes him down to sit. Feeling around, he determines that he's sitting at the dining table. He lets his shoulders drop a little. Not relax, there's too much pain for that, but drop. Just a little bit.
He doesn't even try to open his eyes. His head is still splitting, after all. But he still tries to look up in what he hopes is Avery's general direction. He can hear Avery putting things away, mumbling something about Derlord being "too fancy" for his own good.
Derlord doesn't feel the need to defend himself, for once. He doesn't even want to. Whether it's the pain, or he's just getting soft, he isn't sure. But he's a little ok with that.
The sounds of the whoosh of flames and boiling water fill his ears. He may not be able to see it at the moment, and usually, that would be frustrating, and it still is, but he's ok with just the sound. He doesn't need his eyes. He doesn't need to see.
Derlord is beginning to relax against his will. Fully, this time. He's still too prideful. He's still in pain. He still hates being useless. But for now he's willing to deal with it, so long as he can see a smile on Avery's face once he can open his eyes again. For now he could let it go, and relax in the kitchen while Avery cooked something simple (after all, while Avery was the better cook by some margins, Derlord had better taste). For now he could enjoy the company, and the sounds, and the sun shining at his back.
For now, he could be content with accepting the love he'd been given, one step at a time.